


Après Moi

by reddagger



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Curse Breaking, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Genderbending, M/M, Mindfuck, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:04:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1404160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddagger/pseuds/reddagger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 1943. Steven Rogers watches the war footage in black and white, waits for letters from Bucky, and contemplates why the beautiful woman with the startling green eyes seems so keen on trying to helping him (despite the fact that she seems to want to do otherwise.) And Steve, being Steve, can’t seem to stop himself from doing the right thing, even at his own expense.</p><p>But nothing is ever as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Top shelf, no ice.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, welcome, enjoy.  
> This is a little project I've been writing in between trying to work back up to my monstrous multi-chapter Far Cry 3 fic. I've got quite a bit finished but updates will be sporadic. You have been warned.
> 
> This is set after the Avengers and before Thor 2, so technically it's canon divergent but bah to the tags.

_“So,” Ironman said and crossed his arms. “Can it be done?”_

_“Without any irreparable damage?” Black Widow added. Her gaze was uncompromisingly cold and calculating. Under the stoic mass, Loki knew she was holding back her rage. Little tendrils of hate were seeping into her words, unbidden, and he knew she was worried. Unprofessionally so._

_Thor turned to his brother and released the infernal muzzle with a quick metallic click. Loki took a deep breath and grinned widely at the Avengers assembled around him._

_“Yes,” he said to the tense audience. “Breaking a curse such as this is no mere child’s play. I will be risking my own sanity, my own mind, but it can be done without harm to your dear Captain. However…” He held up his shackled wrists. “I will need these unbound to begin.”_

_“You agree to our terms?” Ironman asked stonily. “And swear, an oath on your honor, to break the curse without damage done to our friend – mentally and physically.”_

_“Yes.” The sneer didn’t waver. “I swear on my honor, on my name, Loki Laufeyson, God of Chaos and Fire, that your task will be done to the best of my abilities; which are, undoubtedly, the best. And in return…”_

_“…In return, our Father spares you from a punishment worse than death,” Thor boomed darkly._

_“He is not my father, nor my king,” Loki hissed and yearned to feel magic at his fingertips. But, patience, he knew, was needed. He stayed the course. “Nevertheless, I will do as you bid. I swear Steven Rogers will be broken from Amara’s curse and return to you, whole in body and mind.”_

_Ironman nodded and Thor roughly removed the shackles at the motion. Loki made a show of rubbing his wrists before allowing his magic to flow though his entire being. He breathed again, finally complete. He grinned wider at the tense audience._

_“Show me too him.”_

_Three days later, Steve opened his eyes, gasping for breath, as the Avengers were clamoring around him._

_Machines are beeping, whirring, screaming, Tony is calling his name, Bruce shouting for quite as he tries to read a message displayed on one of the many screens, Natasha has begun to rise from her chair while Clint is already on his feet looking as if he wants to help but has no idea how._

_All Steve can do is stare straight ahead, into the eyes of Loki, God of Chaos and Fire, who stands at the head of the hospital gurney, staring back down, equally shocked. Steve can feel the cold press of the god’s thumbs on his temples and equally cold fingers holding his jaw on either side of his head. Slowly he can feel the influence of the god’s magic worm its way out of his psyche, as if the power were receding back through the god’s fingers._

_Steve feels stripped bare, alone, and he tries to reach out to Loki, to tell him everything is going to be alright, but all he can whisper is, “No, Loki.”_

_The machines are screaming again time seems to slow for Steve. Tony is shouting ‘What the hell did you do!’ at Loki, while Thor is reaching for his brother’s shoulder. Natasha is on her feet brandishing the muzzle Loki was once sent away in. Clint is reaching for the pistol on his hip, his bow nowhere in sight._

_Steve knows what’s going to happen next._

_Loki rips his hands away and Steve gasps, his mind slowly breaking through the Loki’s magic and the curse had held over it._

_“Unhand me!” Loki and Steve say in unison. Loki pulls away from Thor’s grab and Steve sits up, pushing past Tony. Steve turns to look back once more at Loki before the god simply vanishes from the room._

_Steve’s mind is suddenly his own and despite the commotion around him, he feels very, very alone._

 

* * *

 

It is always about death these days.

 

Steve folds his newspaper and sets it down on the table in front of him. The black and white pictures of the Front stand out starkly against the white and red checkered table cloth.

 

“Anything else I can get you, Steven?” The voice is kind and soft but when Steve turns to face Nat, his favorite server at the small diner, he sees her eyes linger too long on the printed picture. He remembers that she has a husband somewhere across the vast Atlantic.

 

“No, thank you, ma’am,” Steve says politely and tucks the article away in his fathers worn messenger bag when Nat moves on to the next customer.

 

Steve looks out the window and finishes his coffee. The sun is out but the factory-produced smog is hanging in the air painting the morning a warm grey.  The smog is drifting over from the factories near Jersey. From behind the glass window of the diner Steve can see wind catching in women’s dresses and off of clothes hung from windows to dry. The wind promises a storm and Steve can’t help but hope the rain will wash away the grey haze that seems to have settled over Brooklyn.

 

He leaves Nat a tip as generous as he can afford and makes his way onto the busy street side. The wind has picked up and he pushes bodily against it, making his way to the large brick factory building where he will spend the next eight hours putting together linotype equipment for Mergenthaler and Company.

 

Nothing is ideal.

 

Steve manages to reach the building, a monstrous dirty red brick structure near the docks, before his shift starts. As he enters the building thunder rumbles in the air and the great double doors leading into the factory shudder. Steve instinctually looks behind him and sees the first signs of a good rain begin to dot the ground.

 

He hurries inside and occupies himself with the production line, inspecting each small letter plate to make sure they’re acceptable to pass onto the next station. He lets his mind wonder. He thinks of the pictures in the paper, of the small article and smaller, nearly inscrutable, picture of American and British soldiers carrying back their wounded. Bucky hasn’t sent him a letter in a few weeks and it makes Steve nervous.

 

Steve finds that he’s been staring at a small block with the letter ‘b’ for longer than necessary and passes it down on the line. The rest of his day passes along as well, each letter a thought, each thought a worry or misgiving. When his shift ends Steve is exhausted.

 

His walk home leaves him cold and wet, as he has forgotten to bring his umbrella and when he trudges up to his small apartment he is so entrapped in his own thoughts and tiredness he fails to notice the woman at his door.

 

“Maggie?” Steve asks suddenly, startled to see Bucky’s old girl on his doorstep. Steve opens his mouth to greet her properly and to invite her inside, out of the cold, but the tears in her eyes and her streaked mascara stop anything from escaping his lips.

 

“I’m so sorry, Steve,” she says and pulls a handkerchief from her large coat. She dabs at her eyes before abandoning courtesy and sobbing loudly into the cloth. “So sorry…” she says again and Steve can feel his heartbeat. “They said… they said he was captured, over enemy lines… they sent the letters out… they said he’s dead, Steve! He’s dead!”

 

She breaks down and drops to her knees on the dusty floor matt outside his door to engulf him in a hug. Her head rest against his chest and she sobs into his wet coat.

 

“God, Steve, you were his best friend. I had to tell you. I’m so sorry, so sorry, Steve…” She hiccups through her words and clutches at his thin frame.

 

“No…” Is all Steve can say and Maggie sobs harder.

 

Steve is aware that his neighbor, an elderly gentleman with a rough Sicilian accent has come out to inquire about the noise, but the old man takes one look at them and shuts his door.

 

“Steve.” Maggie looks up and releases him from the tight hug. “I’m going to go to Vicky’s house, she was close to Bucky too…” She breaks with a little sob and shudder. “Would you like to come? We could… talk?”

 

Steve feels himself shake his head and Maggie releases him, rising to her full height. She places her hands on his shoulders as if to steady herself and looks into his eyes.

 

“Steve, are you sure?”

 

He swallows and realizes his eyes are dry. “Don’t worry about me,” he says in a strained voice. “I’m going over to Anthony’s for a drink later. I’ll be fine, Maggie.” He looks mechanically to the stairwell. “Would you like me to walk you out?”

 

Maggie sniffs and shakes her head in the negative. “Oh, you’re always so kind, Steve. Please, dry off and rest, all right?”

 

Maggie’s hands slide off of his shoulders and he stands still as the sound of her heels fade with her descent down the stairs. Steve immediately feels cold and reaches into his wet pants pocket or is keys. His hand trembles and he nearly drops them as he opens his door.

 

When the lock clicks closed Steve feels the emotion well behind his eyes and he reaches for the nearest object – a worn book he picked up from one of the shops on Main Street – and hurls it across the room. He hears it hit the furthest wall but doesn’t look to see where it landed because his back is to his door and he’s sliding down to a sitting position, his head in his hands.

 

And, finally, he cries.

 

It takes him time to pull himself together and move from the doorframe to his bedroom, where he can strip the damp clothes off and put on another ill fitting set. He leaves the wet mess on his bedroom floor before he rubs the last tears from his eyes and cleans his nose on a hand towel in his small restroom. His reflection stared sullenly back, eyes red rimmed and nose still running, and far too much space above his head within the mirror frame.

 

Steve decides he’s fit enough to walk a block to Anthony’s and grab a drink.

 

He locks the door behind him and makes his way down the stairwell. The rain has quieted and he can walk the block without getting drenched.

 

Anthony’s is a small pub run by a boisterous Italian man. When Steve pushes in through the heavy doors there’s a crowd around one of the card tables and a few men are laughing and cheering for their friends.

 

Steve takes his customary seat at the barstool furthest from the crowd. He wipes the moister from his face and hair as Anthony saunters over.

 

“Good evening.” Anthony’s voice is devoid of its usual cheer. Steve knows that he knows. “The usual pint? It’s on the house in lieu of… ”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Steve says quickly and Anthony nods, leaving to fill a glass. The bartender has never been good at sympathizing, he’d been a right asshole to Steve when they’d first met, but Bucky smoothed things over.

Steve swallows against the lump in his throat and fights back the burning in his eyes. He sniffs loudly and makes a wheezing sound that has Anthony looking toward him in concern. Before the bartender can reach him, a delicate hand offers him a pressed handkerchief.

 

Steve looks at the extended hand and clean cotton cloth.

 

“No, thank you,” Steve says slowly. He’s not crying anymore, the initial outburst left him empty. All he wants to do is finish his drink and maybe he wont be able to feel anything if he finishes another.

 

“As you wish.” The hand withdraws and Steve takes a moment to look at the woman who has taken the seat next to him. He has to pause because she’s far too beautiful to be frequenting a dive like Anthony’s.

 

She has platinum blonde hair that’s cropped short, just under her ears. But its not real blonde, Steve realizes, the roots near her scalp are dark and her finely plucked eyebrows are nearly black. They stand out starkly against her pale skin and accent her green eyes. Her face is fine boned and akin to Clara Bow or perhaps Miss Louise Brooks, the silent film actresses he’s seen. Her dark blue dress is sequenced and hangs loosely from her lithe body, most of which she hides under a large woven coat. He can see her wrists and he thinks she’s thin, almost unattractively so, but her face has enough flesh on it to retain softness.

 

“I will take a drink. Bourbon. Top shelf, no ice,” she says and studies Anthony with a cold fascination before taking out a cigarette, placing it on a log holder and lighting it. She looks over her shoulder at Steve and he immediately looks away.

 

“Hello, Soldier,” she says in a practiced voice. British, Steve realize, and there is something about the accent that he finds interesting and appealing. Especially now that he’s noticed her lips are strikingly red.

 

“I’m not,” he says after a beat, looking at his own drink. “A soldier, I mean, ma’am.”

 

“I know,” she exhales a puff of smoke. Anthony comes over and places a glass with bourbon and ice in front of her. She picks up the tumbler and rolls the ice in the amber liquid. “But you should be.”

 

Steve isn’t exactly sure what to say to that. He looks back at his drink. “I tried.”

 

She’s looking at him now. “I don’t have any doubt that you did. Why did you stop trying?”

 

Steve isn’t comfortable discussing his shortcomings – for lack of a better word – with a complete stranger. Instead he asks, “What’s you name?”

 

“Laura Leighsmith,” she says, ignoring his obvious avoidance of the question, and extends a slim hand to shake his. He’s surprised by the strength of her grip.

 

“Laura,” he repeats and takes his hand back slowly. The bartender looks between them and quirks his eyebrows at Steve before leaving the two to their conversation.

 

She smiles, “And yourself?”

 

“Steve Rogers,” he says. “Please to make your acquaintance.”

 

“Charmed,” she says and takes a drink from the slim glass. “Did you recently lose a friend? You have the look of a man beginning to morn.”

 

“Yes,” Steve says and takes a long drink so he wont tell her Bucky was his best friend, his only friend, how alone he feels, how he feel – knows – he could have prevented his death. He sets his empty pint down and looks at his small hands clutched around the dewy glass.

 

“I am sorry,” Laura says softly but Steve doesn’t hear kindness in her voice, more resignation than anything. After a breath she signals Anthony for a second drink. “Perhaps we can trade.” She pushes a new pint toward him. “A drink for your sorrows?”

 

Steve looks at the offered glass for longer than necessary and then lifts his hand to accept it. He takes a long drink and says, hoarsely, “Thank you.”

 

“Think nothing of it,” she says with a wave of her free hand. “As you may have surmised, I am not a native of this fine city.” The last few words might come out with distain but Steve’s mind is becoming too inebriated to take that into account. “Perhaps you could tell me of some sights to see?”

 

Steve knows a distraction when he sees one but he’s grateful for it so he tells her about Central Park and how, at the right hour, you can see the sun rise above the city and bath the rooftops gold. There is a baker on 34th street that has the best Italian bread in the entire city and sells it fresh from the oven every morning. He tells her about the small bookstores hidden among the sprawling city, about the best place for a soda and where she might find a tailor if she desires a fine dress.

 

In return Laura buys him another drink. They lapse into silence, though not uncomfortable. Laura blows smoke rings and drinks her bourbon. Steve watches the smoke, finishing his own beer.

 

“Why are you being so nice to me,” he asks against his better judgment and Laura responds with a raised eyebrow.

 

“Are you not accustom to simple kindness?” She asks but there’s and edge behind her words that Steve can’t decipher.

 

“No, but,” Steve persists. “I don’t understand why someone like you would want to help someone like me.”

 

“You presume I judge you based on your current appearance,” Laura says frankly. “You are so much more than you think you are, Steve Rogers. You must realize this.”

 

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that so he simply looks into his drink and finishes it.

 

“If I’d enlisted, if I were over there…” He makes a vague gesture to indicate a far off land. “I could have helped, I could have saved my best friend’s life.”

 

Laura hums and exhales another puff of smoke. “There are things that are simply unavoidable. Death is one such thing. Everything comes to its intended end, just as you shall die and I, later.”

 

“Yeah.” Steve swirls the dregs of froth and gold liquid in his cup. “But I could have given him more time. He wouldn’t have had to die alone in some trench.”

 

“Perhaps you would have died before him? In this state I see the likelihood of your abilities, or inabilities, to do anything more than cause a hindrance to the men around you.”

 

Steve puts his glass down with more force than necessary. “You don’t know that.” He says darkly and fixes the mysterious woman with a hard look.

 

Laura is taken aback and she meets his gaze solidly. “Of course,” she amends. “I don’t.” She breathes and then drops her gaze to study the condensation on her glass. “Forgive any offense I may have caused.”

 

Steve feels his sudden burst of anger deflate and he looks away as well. “No, sorry about that,” he sighs and finishes what’s left of his drink. “I’m just used to people assuming I’ll be in the way or can’t pull my weight.”

 

“You are not weak,” Laura says into her own drink.

 

“Thanks,” Steve says and he glances over at her again. She isn’t the friendliest woman he’s ever met but, this brain supplies helpfully, this is the longest conversation he’s held with a woman who wasn’t forced to endure his presence. He suddenly feels awkward; his clothes too large, his hands have nowhere to go, and he can feel Laura watching him.

 

“You, uh, speak like you know about me,” he says for lack of better material. He wishes bitterly that Bucky were here to give him hints on what to say. But Bucky wouldn’t have his back anymore. Never again.

 

“I don’t,” Laura says. “But I have always had the ability to judge a man quickly and correctly.”

 

“Oh.” He lets his thumb rub against the hem of his shirt.

 

Blessedly, Anthony yells out for last calls.

 

“Thank you for the drinks,” Steve says quickly, lamely, and paces a few bills on the counter. “I should, um, cover some of them, it wouldn’t be proper otherwise.”

 

“As you wish,” Laura says and she puts her own money down.

 

“I suppose this is goodnight, then,” Steve says and tries to steady himself on the stool he’s just slid down from. Anthony claps him on the back as he sweeps over to them. He fixes Steve with a wide grin before running his eyes over Laura’s lithe figure.

 

“Tell me, dollface,” Anthony says in his more lascivious voice. “Are you really going home alone tonight?”

 

Steve can see Laura’s posture stiffen and there’s a certain distain in her eyes for Anthony that Steve didn’t catch before. Steve’s imagination provides a quick image of Laura throwing the man through a window of a very, very tall building.

 

“I think I will manage,” Laura says in a voice that could cut ice. She turns to Steve and offers him her arm. “Will you walk a lady out?”

 

If he were more sober Steve thinks he might appreciate the way Anthony’s eyebrows raise dramatically. But then man simply laughs, he sweeps away again with a quick wink in Steve’s direction. Steve is still surprised and cant’ think of anything to do other than take the arm Laura offers. They leave the pub together, Steve leaning far too heavily into her in order to avoid stumbling. He’s surprised that she braces him and allows it.

 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters and tries to steady himself. “I didn’t think I drank so much.”

 

“Fret not,” Laura says softly but Steve can catch a bit of tiredness creeping into her voice. “Guide me to your home, I shall see that you find your way there safely.”

 

Laura moves so that one of Steve’s arms clutches her waist and her own arm wraps around his shoulder. They walk, somewhat unsteadily toward his apartment building, slotted together like two pieces of in a larger puzzle.

 

 


	2. Are they anything like Poptarts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the positive response. Enjoy! :)

_They think he might be compromised. They don’t tell him but he knows and he isn’t sure if he disagrees. Having an enemy root around in your teammate’s brain for a few days (though, Steve thinks, it was more like months on the inside) would put any agent with a shred of self-preservation on high alert._

_Steve doesn’t blame them but it still hurts._

_And Loki is in the wind._

_Steve had learned more about the deal over the few days he was left to read files from a tablet in the medical bay. Loki was offered a reprieve from his punishment on Asguard – what exactly that punishment was, Steve was still unsure – in exchange for subverting Amara’s curse and returning Steve to himself._

_Steve leans on the deck railing and looks out over the vast cityscape of New York. It was nothing like the world he’d been in only days ago – a New York of the past, only alive in his own mind._

_He sighs._

_“Admiring the view?” Tony sauntered over to join Steve on the deck overlooking the city. “If there’s a little voice in there that sound like our Asguardian runaway telling you to jump, you better tell me. Or Natasha. She could probably subdue you faster.”_

_He grins at Steve’s suddenly shocked offense and offers Steve the cup of coffee. He has a folder filled with printouts sporting charts, graphs, and statistical readouts about the Incident. Steve catches a ‘ROGERS, S’ on a page or two. Steve takes the cup._

_“What do they tell you?” Steve nods at the folder and sips at the coffee._

_He is suddenly reminded of being hung over and stilted conversation over a hot cup of coffee at an old diner. This memory, he scolds himself, is false. However, that doesn’t alleviate the pang of guilt he feels._

_“They say you’re brain functions are normal,” Tony says and closes the folder. “There’s no sign Loki pulled inception shit on you.”_

_Tony studies Steve for a moment longer and Steve wishes he could hide his discomfort._

_“I know it was only a few days but I remember months, Tony,” Steve says. “Months with Lau… I mean, Loki, and  - don’t look at me like that – they weren’t all bad.”_

_“You had Amara’s curse trapping you in your past and the god of lies rooting around, trying to drag you out, it doesn’t sound like sunshine and rainbows from where I’m standing,” Tony said eyeing him critically._

_“That’s the thing.” Steve set the mug down. “He wasn’t… Loki couldn’t just drag me out, the curse wouldn’t let him, and I… my mind wouldn’t let me leave. For a long time I didn’t want to go.” Steve looks out over the skyline again. “He stayed with me through all the bad things that happened. And, he… Well, it got really messed up in there, Tony.”_

_Tony barks out a sudden mirthless laugh and Steve snaps his attention back to his friend._

_“Don’t,” Steve says. “It’s not a laughing matter.”_

_“Sorry, Cap, can’t help it,” Tony says and sobers himself. “You’re saying that your golden, vanilla, ‘boy scout for truth and justice’ brain mentally scarred the Norse god of lies, chaos, and evil shit? C’mon Steve…”_

_“Just leave it, Tony.”_

 

* * *

 

Steve wakes in a bed, his head feels like splitting and his mouth is parched. The room is small; the morning light is just beginning to spill into the bedroom providing enough lamination to make the few amenities in the room visible. He squints at his surrounds and exhales as he spots a worn recruitment poster and several of his worn books on a rickety dresser. He’s home but he really doesn’t remember how he got here.

 

The headache is a good first clue, though.

 

He sits up fighting past the pain in his head to stumble into his kitchen. Steve finds a clean glass and fills it from the tap. Its as he’s leaning bodily against the counter that he notices the woman curled in the warn armchair in his sparse living room. He remembers her from the night before – Lauren? _Laura! –_ and her strange, cold kindness.

 

In the ethereal morning light he can see the smudges of her make up, the knots in her pale, smooth hair. She’s curled up in an oversized armchair, her coat draped around her shoulders, her legs folded neatly in front of her. Her feet are bare and her heels set respectfully next to the large chair.

 

Lying open on the small end table near her, Steve notices, is a copy of Tolstoy’s War and Peace. He vaguely remembers throwing it across the room the afternoon before and admonishes himself for acting so rashly.

 

The book is off the floor now and opened nearly half way. Steve wonders if she spent a good amount of the night reading it while he slept. He suddenly feels a thread of shame creep into his thoughts. He should not have left a lady in such a state; the least he could have done was offer her the bed for the night.

 

Carefully, he makes his way toward her and reaches to touch one of her thin shoulders. Before his fingertips graze her coat, she awakens with a start, looking wildly around.

 

“Whoa,” Steve says softly. “Sorry about that, I just wanted to see if you would rather sleep a few more hours on a bed.”

 

“Forgive my surprise,” she says and pushes a few strands of hair out of her eyes, looking about her. “I knew not where I was. This plane of reality is very confusing.”

 

“Its fine,” Steve says gently and frowns at her last sentence. “I would you, uh, want to catch a few more hours of sleep? You can take my bed, this chair isn’t the most comfortable…”

 

“No, no.” Laura unfolds her legs, sits up, and readjusts her coat. “I’ve imposed for far to long.”

 

“It’s fine, really,” Steve says and realizes this is the first time a woman has stayed the night in his apartment. “Um, if you’re not feeling too sick from last night, maybe I could make you breakfast…as a thank you, for last night – getting me home, I mean.”

 

Laura contemplates the offer and then nods. “That is very kind of you, Steve Rogers.”

 

\---

 

As it turns out, Steve’s kitchen isn’t well stocked so he instead apologizes and invites her to grab some food with him at Nat’s diner. Laura agrees before excusing herself to freshen up in his meager bathroom.

 

Steve isn’t hungry himself, his head has become a dull ache but he could use a good, strong cup of coffee. He shuffles around his living quarters and finds himself looking at the open copy of War and Peace. He picks it up and silently reads a passage:

_Man cannot possess anything as long as he fears death. But to him who does not fear it, everything belongs. If there was no suffering, man would not know his limits, would not know himself…_

 

“I found it discarded on your floor and I was somewhat intrigued by the title,” Laura says, having emerged from the washroom. “It proved to be much more philosophical than I presumed.”

 

Steve looks up and closes the book. “Did you like it?” He asks earnestly.

 

Laura looks thoughtful and then nods, “Yes.”

 

“Then you should barrow it,” Steve says and holds it out. “You didn’t finish it, right? It would be a shame not to, especially if you like it.”

 

Laura seems hesitant as she takes the book from his outstretched hand. “Thank you,” she says slowly and clutches the book close.

 

They walk to the diner in near silence – Steve, not entirely sure what to say or why she’s still with him and Laura seems to be keenly observing her surroundings. The people around them seem to part in their wake. More than once Steve feels hostile eyes turn to him and, more so, on Laura.

 

He tenses and watches her as she studies their surroundings. Her sharp green eyes travel from the open windows of similar apartment buildings, to the bustling men and women, to the few wispy trees that dot the sidewalk. Cataloging and categorizing, it seems, as she takes in the world around her.

 

“This is all very thorough,” she says and Steve frowns.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“It is hard to explain. Simply, this city is impeccably constructed.” Laura waves a hand quickly at the buildings around them. “You remember things quite well, details specifically.”

 

“Um,” Steve shrugs. “I guess and Brooklyn’s all right but I’m sure it doesn’t have any of the history or majesty when compared to London or, well, wherever you’re from.” He frowns again. “Where are you from anyway, you accent is British, right?”

 

“If it sounds British than I suppose it is,” Laura says lightly. “I am from a very far off land. It is very nearly unknown your people.”

 

“Right,” Steve says and tries a different angle. “Did you come here because of the war?”

 

Laura raises her sharp eyebrows and looks down at him curiously. “A war of sorts, yes. There was a failed invasion.”

 

Steve wants to ask more but they are outside the diner and he opens the door for her, questions dying on his tongue. It feels like the entire room turns and looks at them. Steve catches the tensing of Laura’s shoulders under her coat. It only lasts a second but it unsettles him.

 

Nat sits them down and casts Laura a quick, disapproving, glance. Laura’s eyes catch and catalogue this. She reaches for her menu instead and looks across the booth at Steve.

 

“Is there anything that you would recommend?” She asks calmly and if she were unnerved by the strange hush that seems to settle around them she gives no sign.

 

“The pancakes are good,” Steve says as Nat brings him his customary coffee.

 

“Pancakes…” Laura hums and closes her menu. “Are they anything like poptarts?”

 

Steve immediately feels his headache spike. The word is familiar but for the life of him he can’t place it. “I don’t think I know what those are.” He offers with a shrug. “What are they like?”

 

Laura puts the menu down. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Steve has never been good at conversing with women and he finds himself sipping at his coffee, unsure how to respond. Laura doesn’t seem to mind the silence. She orders from Nat and requests a cup of coffee as well.

 

After Nat sets the seaming mug down Steve watches Laura take a tentative sip before pulling her mouth away from the cup like it bit her. “That’s… foul,” she mutters.

 

“Yeah, maybe try adding some cream and sugar.” Steve suggests and pushes the ceramic holders toward her. “Nat makes her coffee really strong. It’s a Russian thing, I think.”

 

Laura is methodical as she adjusts the amount of cream and sugar in her coffee to fit her taste. Finally, she nods as if deeming the drink acceptable, and takes a longer sip. Nat brings them their food. Laura cuts her pancakes into bit size chunks before dabbing them in the syrup. Her first bit is hesitant but after chewing thoughtfully for a minute she dips another chunk into a more gracious helping of syrup.

 

“This is very good,” she says and indicates the maple syrup on her plate. “And it distilled from tree sap?”

 

“Uh,” Steve says intelligently. “Yeah. Have you never really had pancakes and syrup before?”

 

“No,” Laura shakes her head. She takes another bite and Steve takes a long drink from his mug of coffee, not able to think of anything else to say. They finish the meal in silence, Laura finishes her plate while Steve opts to pick at his own and nurse the cup of coffee in his hand.

 

In the silence his mind drifts back to Bucky and it seems incomprehensible that they will never share another cup of coffee at Nat’s or drink at Anthony’s or take girls dancing – even if was Bucky the girls wanted to dance with.

 

“You should not dwell on such thought,” Laura says and takes a sip of her own coffee, breaking through Steve’s melancholia. “It is unhealthy.”

 

“Yeah, well, the death of your best friend isn’t something you just get over after a night of drinking,” Steve snaps and is immediately sorry.

 

Laura looks into her coffee. “What would help you get over it then, Steve?”

 

Steve isn’t sure how to answer – can’t answer. He puts his coffee cup down and looks at the pale, waif-like figure in front of him. In the morning light she is more bony and, in some ways, skeletal. He thinks about the way the people have reacted to her, Nat’s cold eyes watching Laura, the way Anthony leered but held a sense of contempt. Steve himself finds her unsettling, unreal in that way her platinum blonde hair isn’t its natural black. Yet he finds himself drawn to her presence, her difference, and the strange feeling that he knows her from somewhere far, far away.

 

“Do you want to go dancing with me?” He asks, surprising both himself and Laura.

 

She hesitates for a second before nodding. “Yes. I will accompany you, Steve.”

 


End file.
